Good Afternoon, Officer
by Dunyazade
Summary: Bruce really shouldn't speed in Blüdhaven. Oneshot.


_Author's note: I warned ya I was on a big Nightwing kick lately! Obviously, this is set while Dick is still a cop with the Blüdhaven Police Department. And it is purely for fun.  


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Good Afternoon, Officer

For the first time in months, the sun was shining in Blüdhaven.

And for the first time in, well, _ever_, Dick Grayson was feeling listless. He'd been cooped up in his patrol car for hours, on his own, running radar.

He hated running radar. Not only was it boring beyond belief, but he hated being called by his first name by people who didn't _know_ his first name, usually in a grumble under their breath as he asked for their license and registration. At first it hadn't bothered him, and he'd actually found it sort of funny-- but the novelty had worn off.

He _kinda_ wanted to sleep, since he hadn't been doing that very much in recent weeks, but of course he _couldn't_ do that because he was still _on duty_, and rookie cops who slept on the job were not favorably regarded within the law enforcement community.

Two hours left of his shift. Then he could crawl back to his apartment and pass out for a few hours, unless of course somebody needed him.

He yawned and did his best to stretch his arms over his head within the confines of his vehicle, and almost wished the radio would squawk and dispatch him to an incident. Anything would be better than just _sitting_ there on the side of the road. But the radio had been pretty quiet all day, except for the occasional code called in-- transfer of this, transfer of that. Initiated, completed. All routine stuff.

Maybe the criminals were staying indoors, Dick reasoned, on account of the excessive sunshine. Afraid they'd catch fire if they set foot outside. But that probably just meant they'd be _extra _ornery by the time Dick caught up with them as Nightwing.

He began to visualize Nightwing's patrol route in his mind…

When suddenly a flashy black Lamborghini streaked by his position at about a hundred miles per hour _over_ the speed limit.

"Oh no you don't," Dick exclaimed, as a glance at his rudely beeping radar gun confirmed what his eyes had already told him. Tires spun, rubber burned, lights flashed and the siren began its undulating scream. The police car leapt onto the road with an eagerness worthy of its driver.

It only took a few seconds before the Lamborghini hit its brakes, and only a few more seconds for Dick to wish that it _hadn't_, since that was when he realized exactly _whose_ Lamborghini it was.

Dick held on to the steering wheel with both hands as the sleek black car decelerated in front of him, and obediently pulled over onto the shoulder. On impulse, Dick remembered the oversized aviators kept in the vehicle for rookies to wear (as part of the never-ending hazing process), and put them on.

There was _no way_ he was going to get away with this. Like, not even the tiniest chance. But, at the very least, what he was about to attempt would give him something to laugh about while he waited for his shift to end. _And_ it'd give him something great to call Babs about, which would make it all worth it.

Both vehicles were stopped now, and Dick should have been calling in the license plate over the radio, but at the last minute he decided not to. Half the department already knew that Dick Grayson was the adopted son of Bruce Wayne, and if word got out around the communal cop coffee pot about _this_, he knew he'd never live it down. He already had a bit of a reputation as a goody-goody and a tool among his peers-- and he certainly wouldn't earn any cool points with anyone for writing a speeding ticket for his own _dad_.

Adjusting his hat so it sat a little lower on his forehead, Dick got out of his car. He was careful to move like a _normal_ person as much as possible. A little lazy. A little unbalanced. As if he would actually _fall_ if the ground dropped out and left him standing on a high wire. He kept his weight on his heels, letting them slap the ground with each step. The slightest _bounce_ on the balls of his feet and Bruce would know who he was from a mile away.

Who was he kidding- Bruce probably already knew it was him. He'd seen Dick in his BPD uniform plenty of times. But then again, the Lamborghini was still _parked,_ and if Bruce knew it was him, Dick was pretty sure he'd just rev the engine and zoom away.

Moment of truth now. Dick approached the already-rolled down window. And there was the billionaire playboy himself, looking like every magazine photo that had ever been taken of him-- and, by some twist of fate, he was _not_ looking up at the cop who had just pulled him over.

"Good afternoon, officer," said an amused and slightly sheepish voice from inside the car. And then Bruce looked up.

Dick didn't care _what _Batman's official JLA file said- the man _must_ have had some kind of supernatural powers, because in that moment Dick was pretty sure he felt a blast of black psychic energy projected his way. But even that didn't do any good. It was too late. Dick took Bruce's glare like a champ, his smile cutting right through it, a boat through a black wave.

"How's it going today, sir?" Dick asked in a casual voice that was halfway between chastisement and apology. "Do you know how fast you were going back there?"

"Dick," Batman grunted from Bruce Wayne's face. "Don't waste my time."

"Hey, I'm just doing my job here," Dick reminded him.

Batman clenched his teeth. "And it's a waste of _your_ time too. _Look _at you. Writing _speeding tickets_," he growled in disgust.

"I admit, it's not my favorite part of the job," Dick said. "But somebody has to do it. There are a lot of maniacs driving around out there. _You_ were doing a hundred and fifty."

Suddenly Bruce's eyes looked a little _colder_ than their usual ice-blue. "Since you went through the trouble of pulling me over, why don't you _cite _me?" he challenged.

"Maybe I will." They both knew there was no _maybe_ about it. There was no way Dick would be writing Bruce a ticket. Bruce's upper lip twitched, and that was Dick's first real clue that he'd caught the man on a particularly bad day—but he ignored that clue, and pressed on, just a little too playfully smug: "…or maybe I'll let you go with a warni—aagh!"

It was a good thing that Dick was considerably more flexible than most people, because otherwise the process of being single-handedly hauled through the vehicle's window would have probably broken several of his bones.

The Lamborghini rocked side-to-side and shuddered once or twice as a result of the violent scuffle occurring within it, and if anyone had been around to witness the scene, they would have heard several loud _whump!_s accompanied by ferocious growls of "_you_--" and "_Grrhh!_" overridden here and there by exclamations of "hey!" and "ow!" by a much cleaner-sounding voice.

After just a minute or two, Officer Grayson was kicked out of the vehicle, literally, with the sole of Bruce's very expensive shoe impacting the plate of Dick's bullet proof vest dead-center, pushing him out the same window through which he'd been pulled in. Dick landed square on his cute little rear end in the gravel on the side of the road, face red and hair mussed, eyes on fire.

"Give back my _gun!_" he protested, just as Bruce tossed the weapon out the window after him—in pieces.

Scowling, Dick immediately began to reassemble his gun, while, having never even moved from the driver's seat, Bruce regained his composure.

A few seconds later, Dick got to his feet, replaced the gun in its holster on his belt, and put his hat back on his head. Then, defeated, but every inch of him being a good sport about it, he locked eyes with Bruce.

Bruce smirked at him, and slid a certain pair of oversized aviators onto his face. "Thanks for the warning, _officer_," he said brightly, as his eyes disappeared behind the shades. "And have a nice day."

Bruce put the pedal on the floor and disappeared in a long black streak down the road, leaving Dick behind in the dust.

Sighing, Officer Grayson returned to his patrol car and reached for his radio. But then he reconsidered, and pulled out his cell phone instead. Better some things stayed off the net. He was pretty sure Bruce would have turned on his radar detector by now, but just in case he hadn't, there was another speed trap set up about ten miles ahead.

And Dick thought he knew which of his fellow rookies was posted there.

He dialed a number.

"Hello?"

"Max, it's Grayson. You running radar on the other side of the overpass?"

Max Feldscheim, a classmate of Dick's from the Academy, yawned into the phone. "All frickin' day, man. Why? One get past you?"

Dick grinned. "Yeah. I had my head down for a minute and he flew right by. Keep your eyes peeled—I think it was black."

"Ten-four, Grayson. WHOA! Yep, got 'im coming up now!"

The radio squawked right on time, announcing that Max was initiating pursuit.

Of a black Lamborghini.

Dick put away his phone, took a deep breath, and settled back in his seat. "Should've listened to the warning, Bruce," he muttered through a happy smirk. "…you really _shouldn't _speed in Blüdhaven."

The End!


End file.
